Drives Me Wild
by GhostMomma
Summary: John misunderstands Sherlock in a big way.


John tromped up the stairs to his flat in 221B, muscled the door open, and dumped his load of carrier bags on the floor just inside. Overloaded carrier bags make for aching arms even in a former soldier who's retained a surprising amount of muscle tone (crime fighting does keep one fit), because they're just that heavy and annoying, but even so, if the flat had been empty John would have hauled them on to the kitchen, dutifully put all his purchases away—finding them homes amongst the fingernails and ears and dear-god-are-those-miniature-testicles?!—and then made himself a nice cup of tea before zoning out in front of his laptop.

But the flat wasn't empty. Sherlock stood near the door, doing nothing more interesting and mysterious than going through the post.

John had been wanting to talk to Sherlock all day. During their times away from each other every day, John saved up little anecdotes, tiny mysteries or deductions or just funny things that had been said, to share with him. Sherlock rarely engaged John in conversation about what he divulged, and indeed, rarely even looked up from his current activity while John spoke about them, but John knew he listened attentively and appreciatively nonetheless, and later, sometimes weeks later, on a stakeout, or in a cab, he might refer to something John had said, adding insight or clarifying a particular point.

Conveniently, neither of them ever seemed to notice how closely this drew them to the status of lovers so comfortable with their affair that they happily immersed themselves in such banalities.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed happily upon seeing him. "You won't believe the fright that I've had today!" Sherlock neither looked up nor stopped flipping through the several weeks' worth of bills and catalogues and letters of entreaty that he'd let build up, but he listened, of course he listened, as John carried on telling him about the lift that had stopped between floors at the hospital that morning, with him, a laboring mother and her toddler, a senior citizen, and a patient from the cardiac clinic all inside.

When the gesturing part of the story ("And then the kid went like this, and THREW it at the wall! And the cardiac guy clutches his chest like this, and I all of a sudden realize that he's in arrest!") was over, John again picked up his massive load of carrier bags by their handles designed mainly to torture the hands, and hauled them off to the kitchen, carrying on with his story as he went. And Sherlock, who hadn't so much as looked up from the letter that he was reading from some American senator who desperately needed him to come to the States and prove to her electorate that her husband was cheating scum, followed behind seemingly casually, but John knew that inside he was just gasping to hear if the pregnant woman really did go into labor in the elevator as she was threatening, and if so, how John managed to deliver the baby while performing CPR on the cardiac guy and carrying on entertaining the toddler with a puppet made out of a blown-up latex glove.

John tossed the perishable items into their proper storage (yep! Miniature testicles!) as he spoke, but got to the good part—"So I yelled 'Push!", then gave the cardiac guy five compressions, then checked the lady and finally she's crowning! But then all of a sudden her kid collapses, and the lady screams, 'Hey, that glove puppet isn't made of latex, is it? My Henry's allergic to latex!'"—just as he was down to dry goods, so he let them lie and hopped up to sit on the table as he finished his story.

"So there I am, kid unconscious, cardiac guy needing chest compressions, lady giving birth right on the floor in the middle of everything, senior citizen just standing there staring at the lift buttons as if it's a normal ride—Oh, sorry, Sherlock, I know you hate it when I sit on tables. But then the old guy is—"

"I never said that I hate it when you sit on tables," interrupted Sherlock, but clearly given the lie to his words was his expression, which had refocused from the post the second John hopped up onto the table and was now staring intently, firmly, sternly at John.

"Yeah, you did," John said. He was really close to the stunning conclusion of his story and wanted to finish it, but that didn't mean that he was going to ignore even the smallest opportunity to correct Sherlock on a point in which he was absolutely incorrect. If there was anything in this world that was better than telling Sherlock a good story, it was correcting Sherlock on a point of fact.

"Sherlock, you told me once that you hate it when I sit on tables. We were in the morgue, and you were going on and on about the specific color of blue on some deceased guy's hand, and I hopped up onto the counter to eat an apple, and you said—"

But John stopped in confusion, because without a noise or perceptible motion Sherlock had crossed the kitchen and was standing close to John. He was very close now, in fact so close that he was actually standing between John's spread knees as he sat on the table. He was much too close for civility even for Sherlock. Would a truly good friend inform Sherlock of this, so that he could make the necessary corrections to his social skill set? A good friend surely would, John knew, and it increased his discomfort and confusion to know that, much as he loved Sherlock, he wasn't apparently a good enough friend to tell him to back away from him. He couldn't be so unselfish.

Sherlock stared into John's face for a long moment, reading who knows what in his expression, since John himself didn't understand what he was feeling, only that it was a lot, too much, and probably very, very wrong.

"John," Sherlock said, quietly but nevertheless almost angrily to John's ears. "I did not say that when you sit on tables, I hate it." He leaned forward, even more close to John than his already much-too-close-to-be-okay stance, and John, who completely unexpectedly suddenly felt desperately that he, too, needed to lean forward into Sherlock, instead forced himself to do the correct thing and lean slightly away, balancing on his arms braced behind him onto the table.

But Sherlock kept coming, John didn't understand why any more than he could understand the sharp pains of joy and terror that kept flashing through him, and also braced himself on his arms that he set on either side of John's thighs. He was very, very close now, leaning over John. John could feel puffs of warm breath on his mouth, puffs whose frequency told that Sherlock was breathing too fast, just as John was, although he couldn't be so confused, so overwhelmed with feeling as John was, for his expression remained intent, firm, and stern.

"I said," said Sherlock, lips inches from John's, eyes staring into his own with a level of attention that, in all the world, only Sherlock could muster, "that when you sit up on tables like that, it drives me wild."

Oh. _Oh. _It took John a second to translate—with Sherlock, who didn't have to take a second to translate nearly everything?—but the instant that his eyes widened slightly in understanding, the intently watching Sherlock claimed his lips.

John wasn't sure if he should kiss Sherlock back or shove him away—oh, hell with that! Of COURSE he was sure he should kiss Sherlock back!—but he was so off-balance, so exposed, so reliant on only those arms braced behind him that he could barely hold himself up on them, they'd begun to shake so, much less throw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and clutch him to himself as he was desperate to do. And Sherlock took advantage, braced more stably on his own arms next to John's thighs—in fact, he leaned forward, ever more into John, so that finally John was forced to fall back onto his elbows, still kissing and being kissed with all his passion.

John tried to muster a single coherent thought in his brain from which it seemed all coherent thoughts had flown. "Where did this come from?" he thought, but just as soon as his mind formed the question he dismissed it as the last foolish posturing that his stupid straight persona would ever have to make. That straight John façade was gone forever, and John knew that this? This passion for Sherlock, blessedly returned?

This came from everywhere, from everything. It was in the cup of tea that he made for Sherlock every time he made himself a cup, even knowing that no one, absolutely no one, could possibly be expected to drink as much tea as John. It was in the genuine smile that Sherlock only ever shared with John, the genuine laughter—giggles, really—that only John could inspire in him. It was in the candle that Angelo always put on their table, refusing to believe their lying words when he could see the evidence of their body language right in front of him. It was in this kiss, here and now, and in all the kisses and more that would certainly follow, and in that one simple turn of phrase of Sherlock's that, had John not mistranslated it, would have told him everything so many months ago.

Even feeling as he did, so desperate with lust that he could barely breathe, John turned his lips up in a smile against Sherlock's, and felt that Sherlock, even as he was doing such sinfully delicious things to John with his own mouth and tongue, turn his lips up in response. But then Sherlock was again focused on his task, hands and mouth seemingly everywhere all at once, and John's last coherent thought before he was totally lost to it was, "I wonder what else drives him wild?"


End file.
